Post office posts his collage faces to random names and places. When he’s not inspired he’s out of sorts but when he is, he posts all kinds from his multi-faceted fort.
He gets upset cos he can’t tell the difference between a compliment and an insult and has mood swings like a child in a playground as he blames himself cos it’s everyone else’s fault.
Talks to himself loud enough so everyone can hear in his imaginary supermarket but whispers top secret thoughts to himself in private and to not give anything away , reserves his right to silence much to his psychiatrist’s annoyance.
Stands on his bed balcony with his cuckoo clock and shouts out the time every evening at six o’clock cos doors lock.
John Di Girolamo was born during the swinging middle ages as the Battle of Hastings raged outside on a cold, miserable Saturday evening just outside 'The Juggler's Arms' in Oxford, Torquay and Exeter at the same time. Born to a family, he spent most of his early years learning how to open umbrellas for a rainy day, and the runnings of horses and sword swallowers and the costs they incurred. Having graduated in 'Circus Management', he took to spinning plates for a living and persuaded his father to buy a restaurant to fund what he believed would be a lucrative career move. However, in the the days leading to The Age of Post Punk', he quit and would embark upon what was to go down in history doodles as a notebook.
Few knew it then but he had already started copying poetry, and often written by other people. As the minutes passed by, and Sardinia loomed, the idea of collages and drawings suddenly hit him as a way of filling up what had become a kind of book with pages and all. One day while storming off in a huff because his mum told him to, he struck upon the idea of putting it all together over a long-playing record (later a CD) and during a commercial break in the digital age, decided a blog would end Cromwell's ill-fated republic.
Sent off by recorded post, it would be by chance that his poems would get to their ultimate destination as, meanwhile, his pigeon who had queued so loyally for so long, sadly died the day before it was sacked.
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A Pretty Kettle of Poetry 
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